Scribbled Hopes
by SybilltheSeer
Summary: When little Harry Potter catches a fever, his Aunt Petunia decides to help him. While in his cupboard under the stairs, she finds something that helps her connect with her nephew, if only for a moment.
1. Chapter 1

**Scribbled Hopes**

 **A/N: Hello everyone! I'm back with another fic. I know I kind of abandoned my other fic, Younger Days… I'm really sorry about that. I might get back to it eventually if I have a burst of inspiration, but for now, I'm not planning on it. Anyway…the idea for this fic just randomly popped into my head when I woke up one morning, so I wrote it down quick. It's another story centering around Petunia and Harry (you guys know I love those). I just feel like there aren't enough stories out there that show in-character Petunia and Harry interactions, which is really sad, because Petunia is such a fascinating character! I hate it when people just write her off as Harry's mean aunt who finds pleasure in mistreating him, because I don't think she does! I like to imagine that there were times when Petunia found it in her to be kind to Harry, or at least halfway decent to him. She's a very complicated character, and I think that's why I like her so much. PLEASE let me know if you know of any great Petunia and Harry fics that I should check out, because I need to satisfy my craving for them! (I especially love ones with little Harry, although ones with older Harry would be great too)! Also, please review! I'd love to hear what you think. :)**

Chapter 1: (Harry's POV)

Harry awoke one morning feeling rather excited. The night before, he had seen snow begin to fall outside, and today, he knew, the ground would be completely covered with a fresh, white, blanket, just right for playing in. He scrambled out of his cupboard under the stairs and found his Aunt Petunia in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Harry usually never spoke to his Uncle Vernon unless it was absolutely necessary, and he tried to avoid Dudley at all costs, but although his Aunt Petunia could sometimes be harsh with him, if he ever needed something that couldn't be helped himself, it was she that Harry would go to. With his aunt, there was always a chance that she wouldn't shout or scold – although she still did that quite a lot. But this time, Harry didn't need help with anything – he just needed to ask permission.

"Aunt Petunia?" he began, shuffling his feet a little.

"Yes?" she replied, not looking at him, her eyes still fixed on the bacon she was turning on the stove.

"Could I go outside and play in the snow?" Harry couldn't quite keep all the excitement out of his voice.

"I suppose."

"Thanks, Aunt Petunia," said Harry, before rushing back to his cupboard.

Back in his cupboard, Harry changed into the warmest long-sleeved shirt he owned, a ragged old jacket of Dudley's, and his big, old sneakers. It wasn't the most ideal outfit to wear while playing in the snow, but it was the best he had. The minute he finished tying his shoes (a skill he had just recently acquired), Harry raced out the front door. As he slammed the door behind him, the muffled silence of a world blanketed with snow pressed against his ears, and the cold bit his nose and cheeks. The snow on the ground was perfect – smooth, white, and undisturbed – and Harry couldn't wait to be the first to disturb it. Taking his first step into the snow, Harry set about making snowballs, building snowmen, and tracing letters with his fingers on the smooth, white canvas. At first, he tried to avoid getting wet as much as possible, but after tripping and falling face-first into the snow, Harry gave up on trying to stay dry, and proceeded to make as many snow angels as he could. After a while, he became too cold and wet to have fun anymore, and decided it was time to go back into the house.

Harry made sure to kick off as much snow as he could before coming into the house, shivering violently. He trooped back to his cupboard and changed out of his wet clothes, but even in his dry clothes, Harry still shivered. Several hours later, Harry was still freezing cold and feeling miserable. He felt like he did several months ago when he came down with a cold, and Harry wondered if he was sick again now. So, after receiving permission from his Aunt Petunia, Harry returned to his cupboard to lie down and rest. He lay on his cot, wrapped tightly in his blanket, trying to get warm, but to no avail. Now he knew that he had a fever. After awhile he heard footsteps approaching the hallway outside his cupboard door.

"Aunt Petunia? Are you there?" Harry called, weakly.

"What do you want?" his aunt snapped in response, but she bent down, and opened the cupboard door.

"I think I'm sick, but I don't know how to make a fever feel better by myself!" Harry explained, still shivering under his thin covers. Normally, he would avoid confiding in, or asking help from anyone – not unless he couldn't do something about it himself. He was used to taking care of himself. But Harry remembered how miserable his fever was last time, and this time he was resolved to learn how to fix it. Then he would never have to ask for help again – next time he got a fever, he could fix it himself. And who better to ask than Aunt Petunia? Well…. Harry was sure there were better people to ask (his mother for example - if she weren't dead, he reminded himself), but for now, Aunt Petunia was all he had.

"Can you help me fix it?" Harry asked. "Please?" He added in a whisper, when Aunt Petunia didn't respond. Aunt Petunia looked at him for a moment before standing up and walking away. Harry was slightly hurt – for a moment, he thought that she was going to help him. She had actually bent down and opened the door of his cupboard after all! It had been a long time since she had visited Harry's cupboard. But now she had left without a word, and Harry felt slightly abandoned. After a few moments, however, she returned, much to Harry's surprise and relief. She had with her, in her hand, a red pill.

"Here, take this," she said, and she carefully explained to Harry how to swallow it. After several tries, Harry finally managed to swallow the pill, and with a small smile, he thanked his aunt. He expected her to leave without another word, but she didn't. Harry caught her staring curiously at the wall behind him, and he turned to see what she was looking at. All he could see were some of his crayon drawings that he had proudly taped to the wall of his cupboard – surely nothing that would interest Aunt Petunia.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: (Petunia's POV)

Petunia usually avoided her nephew's room (er…cupboard) if she could help it. The truth was, she felt a small twinge of guilt when she remembered that it was her fault he was sleeping there in the first place. What would Lily say? But she couldn't bring herself to do anything about it. Much of the time she just couldn't help imagining what her life would have been like without Harry in it; in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry was out of sight, and therefore out of mind. Today, however, was one of those days when she had felt the need to pay the cupboard a visit (after Harry had called her name of course). She couldn't just leave the boy to suffer alone without anything to help his fever. On this particular visit though, she noticed something in the cupboard that she hadn't seen before. Maybe it was new since her last visit, or perhaps she just hadn't been paying attention before, but this time she saw it, and it made her feel quite strange. On the furthest wall of the cupboard, Harry had used tape to hang several of his own crayon drawings. One picture looked rather familiar – a picture of four stick figures standing side-by-side and hand-in-hand. The tallest was a man with scribbled brown hair; the next tallest, a woman with blonde hair scribbled down to the elbows; and the two shortest, boys with scribbled black and blonde hair respectively. The short stick figure with black hair had round glasses traced onto his face. She could tell that it was a drawing of her own family, plus Harry. The picture, however, had been marred by angry red lines running through it in the shape of an 'X.' Petunia looked over at the other drawings on the wall. Many of them included more stick figures: Two taller people (both with black hair) and a small boy (presumably Harry, with his dark hair and glasses), doing various activities together. As she looked closer, trying to figure out what these stick figures were supposed to be doing, she had a realization that made her heart clench and her stomach fill with hot, bubbly guilt. Pulling herself together, she began to ask her nephew about the drawings.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the crossed out drawing first.

"Me, and you, and Uncle Vernon, and Dudley," Harry replied, pointing to each stick figure in turn.

"Why is it crossed out?" she continued.

"'Cause it's not real," the boy replied, avoiding eye contact.

Ouch. As much as she kept telling herself she didn't care, somehow those words really stung. It somehow hurt more to hear Harry saying them with such indifference, even though she could tell from the tear stains on the drawing that he had truly cared at some point. "How is it not real?" Petunia pressed on.

"'Cause I thought I was family but I'm not," Harry muttered.

There was a pause, and Petunia felt herself growing distinctly uncomfortable. Still, she pressed on, her curiosity getting the better of her, though she thought she already knew the answer to her next question. "Who are these people?" she asked, gesturing toward the other pictures of the three black-haired stick people.

Harry pointed to each person in the picture as he named them: "Me, Mum, and Dad." He spoke more confidently now, with a little smile on his face.

Without pausing to think, Petunia spoke again, but this time she wasn't asking a question. "Your mother had red hair, not black."

Petunia saw Harry's face light up as he reached over to grab the red crayon sitting on one of the cupboard's shelves, and immediately begin to fix his mistakes, scribbling the red crayon over his mum's hair in every drawing. Petunia thought about leaving but decided against it. Instead, shocking even herself, she began to ask more questions about Harry's drawings. Harry seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the attention, and somehow, she couldn't bring herself to leave. But as Harry spoke, his explanations confirmed her realization from earlier. Every activity that stick-Harry and his stick-parents were doing were activities that she could distinctly remember doing with Dudley at one point or another. This realization left her with another sick feeling in her stomach that she didn't want to think about.

Several weeks later, when Harry somehow managed to turn his teacher's wig blue, the guilt and compassion that sometimes overcame her at moments like the one spent looking at drawings under the stairs was overridden by the familiar thought that popped into her head at least once a day: What would my life be without him? As she pictured herself and her family living a normal, undisturbed life without that freakish boy around, she couldn't help feeling hatred toward him. What would her life be like if he had never been dropped on her doorstep? What would be happening right now if she had never agreed to keep him? A happy family dinner, perhaps, without the moody silence, angry glares, and occasional outburst aimed at Harry for his use of accidental magic? But this was her life now. She had made her decision all those years ago. It was now forever her fate to fight a constant battle between compassion and cruelty; caring and indifference; love and hate.


End file.
